The days and weeks seem to be blowing by and my belly seems to be getting bigger. Since I live in a perpetual, blissful state of denial, most things like the calendar, mirrors, and the moving dial on the scale haven't had much of an impact.
However, the last couple of weeks, I've had many family, friends and workmates try to pry my rose-coloured glasses from my eyes.
It began with my mother - yes, my very own mother, whom I most resemble, especially in our indifferent and unassuming attitude to life's most important events. Sitting around her kitchen table a couple of weeks ago, we were chatting about nothing of interest. When she says, so have you looked for a crib yet. Now, for a normal 8-month prego, this wouldn't be a surprising question, but for me, I nearly fell off my chair.
My aloof response of "we'll figure it out" didn't win any points with her and I was then reverted back to a 12 year old child as my mother lectured me on how I can't just figure things out, that a baby has needs right from the start and I won't have time or the energy to figure it out when I get there.
Well, thank you very much, mother!
The next day, I had a playdate with my neices, which unexpectedly turned into a baby training camp.
I was asked to feed my 4-month old neice. Sounds easy enough, right? Well, the chubby munchkin supposedly chugged her bottle too quickly and ended up projectile vomiting all over me. Slopped in regurgitated milk, I was told that I have to pace her feeding. It's 2009, shouldn't bottles be designed to do that for me?? I then went in for a diaper change - just for practice. Thankfully, there was no comedic episode. But, my proud zia bubble was pinpricked when I realized that it took me more than 20 minutes to complete. If I keep up that pace, my child will never leave the diaper station.
If that didn't leave me feeling defeated and absolutely unprepared, I've had one kind, generous friend after another ask me where I'm registered. Since I'm not, I'm then provided with a list of things I just must have. And, while steeped in kindness, every suggestion comes with a "bad mother" clause. You know, the if-you-don't-do-what-is-recommended-I'll-be-a-horrible-mother-that-puts-her-child's-life-and-well-being-in-jeopardy clause.
While I could do without all the pressure and the feelings of utter dispair, the reality of my situation - that I'm really going to have to take care of a child in a few short weeks - is starting to sink in. This, of course, has only increased my urge to hide under the bed covers and wish it could be six months from now and everything's fine.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
A preview to D-day
I have to say, so far, I've been pretty lucky. I've been able to live a rather normal life throughout this pregnancy. Yes, there have been a few inconveniences, some of which have been right pains in the ass (some literal), but overall I don't have much to complain about.
Well, that was until recently. I developed this odd pain in my upper abdomen. At first it was a mild burning sensation and so I thought maybe there's some stretching going on. Like a good prego, I shared it with my doctor who couldn't provide a real explanation and just said that sometimes the prego body does things that cannot be explained.
I was okay with that, but as the weeks went on, the pain become more excrutiating - to the point where I've scared Mr. Oh out of his dreams with my screams of sheer agony. But usually, after a short time, the sharp pain would subside to a dull thud in my upper abs. With each episode, Mr. Oh would beg me to go to the hospital. I'm a believer in listening to my body, what Mr. Oh calls yoga sh!t, so I knew that while the pain was intense the baby was fine. So, try as he might I wasn't interested in going to the hospital.
Well, I finally gave in a couple of Friday nights ago where every move I made ripped through me like a knife. The tough (perhaps stubborn) gal I stupidly can be I gritted my teeth and tried to get through each one. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Oh walked in from work to find me on the floor, trying to bear through another spasm.
Unwilling to take no for an answer, he dressed me (I was paralyzed, so couldn't do this myself), placed me in the car and drove me to the hospital. By the time I got to the ER the pains had eased up, but there was no going home until Mr. Oh was satisfied.
The moment I walked through the doors, an orderly approached me with a wheelchair and indicated for me to have a seat. As I did so, the receptionist got on the phone and barked into the receiver that a woman who was 38 weeks pregnant was being wheeled upstairs. I took a quick look around the rather empty ER to see if there was any other pregos awaiting service. Nope, she was talking about me. As I was being pushed away, I called out, I'm only 32 weeks along, but she wasn't interested in what I had to say.
Quickly, I was brought to the Labor & Delivery ward. If I wasn't experiencing anxiety from the pain, I sure was just by seeing this sign! I was carefully lifted from the wheelchair, ordered to put on the dressing gown and produce a urine sample. Again, unable to do all this on my own, I threw dignity out the window and asked Mr. Oh for help. Upon emerging from the bathroom, I was ordered to get into bed where I was efficiently wired up - two monitors were strapped around my belly, a heart monitor was placed on my finger and an IV tube was inserted into my hand.
As the chaos ensued, I overheard another nurse order Mr. Oh to fill out the stack of insurance papers and submit them, with our co-pay of course, to the cashiers office (Ahh, America!).
Bewildered by it all, I finally looked down at the nurse who was filling up a third vial with my blood and calmly said, "Do you know why I'm here?" Her response: "Honey, you're in labour." I laughed at her and explained that in fact I wasn't in labour. She told me not to worry and that another nurse would be in to check in on me soon.
Once left alone, my spasms came back with a mighty vengence. And with each one, one of the machines would go beserk. I thought nothing of it until the head nurse came to check in on me and reported that I was having sporadic contractions.
I scoffed and told her that I wasn't having contractions and explained the pain I was experiencing. She asked me if this was my first, which it is and then said, well the machine says it's contractions. Like most people, I don't like being dismissed, especially when it has to do with my body. So, I asked her where I would feel pain if I was having contractions. Answer: lower abdomen, which I sternly explained was not my case.
At this point, Mr. Oh's face had lost just about all its color and he was fully engaged in all of his nervous ticks - biting his lips, rubbing his hair and pacing. While a little concerned, I kept telling myself that I know my body and everything's fine.
Now, to make things more interesting, my little critter was enjoying its evening bouncing routine. As opposed to its morning, early-, mid- and late-afternoon jaunts, the evening ones are more energetic and spastic (I envision dancing capabilities akin to Elaine from Seinfeld). It seemed that one of the straps across my belly was to monitor the baby's heart beat.
So, of course, with every bounce, turn, and who knows what else, the baby's heart beat would elevate. On the head nurse's second visit to me, she explained I was still having contractions, and looking at the baby's heart monitor, the baby may be in distress. Incredulous, I asked why she thought so, to which she explained that although always in the normal range, the baby's heart rate was all over the map.
Although I was concerned, I was sure that everything was fine. But, Mr. Oh? He was paler than I've ever seen him and I wasn't sure if he was going to hurl or pass out. But to be safe, I stopped arguing and continued to be monitored.
Four hours later, the doctor finally came in, who engaged me in a full poke and prod session to which he reported that I, in fact, wasn't in labour. Relieved that finally was talking my langugage, I released an expressive, exasperated, "I KNOW!" and then went on to explain my pain.
After about 6 hours strapped to machines, I was finally released and told that I had torn the cartilage just below my rib cage, which can cause intense pain similar to a rib fracture. Oh, but there was even better news, there was really nothing they could do, the pain would likely get more intense as the baby grows and then I'd have a while until it fully heals postpartum. It's not a normal occurance, but I was told it does happen in some rare cases. Lovely!
As we left the hospital, I expressed both my annoyance for all the trouble and my sense of relief for knowing what is wrong with me. Mr. Oh, who started to get some of the blood circulating back into his face, turned to me and in his shakey voice, said, "I really thought it was all going to go down tonight."
I knew otherwise, but at least we got a preview as to what's to come on the real D-day!
Well, that was until recently. I developed this odd pain in my upper abdomen. At first it was a mild burning sensation and so I thought maybe there's some stretching going on. Like a good prego, I shared it with my doctor who couldn't provide a real explanation and just said that sometimes the prego body does things that cannot be explained.
I was okay with that, but as the weeks went on, the pain become more excrutiating - to the point where I've scared Mr. Oh out of his dreams with my screams of sheer agony. But usually, after a short time, the sharp pain would subside to a dull thud in my upper abs. With each episode, Mr. Oh would beg me to go to the hospital. I'm a believer in listening to my body, what Mr. Oh calls yoga sh!t, so I knew that while the pain was intense the baby was fine. So, try as he might I wasn't interested in going to the hospital.
Well, I finally gave in a couple of Friday nights ago where every move I made ripped through me like a knife. The tough (perhaps stubborn) gal I stupidly can be I gritted my teeth and tried to get through each one. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Oh walked in from work to find me on the floor, trying to bear through another spasm.
Unwilling to take no for an answer, he dressed me (I was paralyzed, so couldn't do this myself), placed me in the car and drove me to the hospital. By the time I got to the ER the pains had eased up, but there was no going home until Mr. Oh was satisfied.
The moment I walked through the doors, an orderly approached me with a wheelchair and indicated for me to have a seat. As I did so, the receptionist got on the phone and barked into the receiver that a woman who was 38 weeks pregnant was being wheeled upstairs. I took a quick look around the rather empty ER to see if there was any other pregos awaiting service. Nope, she was talking about me. As I was being pushed away, I called out, I'm only 32 weeks along, but she wasn't interested in what I had to say.
Quickly, I was brought to the Labor & Delivery ward. If I wasn't experiencing anxiety from the pain, I sure was just by seeing this sign! I was carefully lifted from the wheelchair, ordered to put on the dressing gown and produce a urine sample. Again, unable to do all this on my own, I threw dignity out the window and asked Mr. Oh for help. Upon emerging from the bathroom, I was ordered to get into bed where I was efficiently wired up - two monitors were strapped around my belly, a heart monitor was placed on my finger and an IV tube was inserted into my hand.
As the chaos ensued, I overheard another nurse order Mr. Oh to fill out the stack of insurance papers and submit them, with our co-pay of course, to the cashiers office (Ahh, America!).
Bewildered by it all, I finally looked down at the nurse who was filling up a third vial with my blood and calmly said, "Do you know why I'm here?" Her response: "Honey, you're in labour." I laughed at her and explained that in fact I wasn't in labour. She told me not to worry and that another nurse would be in to check in on me soon.
Once left alone, my spasms came back with a mighty vengence. And with each one, one of the machines would go beserk. I thought nothing of it until the head nurse came to check in on me and reported that I was having sporadic contractions.
I scoffed and told her that I wasn't having contractions and explained the pain I was experiencing. She asked me if this was my first, which it is and then said, well the machine says it's contractions. Like most people, I don't like being dismissed, especially when it has to do with my body. So, I asked her where I would feel pain if I was having contractions. Answer: lower abdomen, which I sternly explained was not my case.
At this point, Mr. Oh's face had lost just about all its color and he was fully engaged in all of his nervous ticks - biting his lips, rubbing his hair and pacing. While a little concerned, I kept telling myself that I know my body and everything's fine.
Now, to make things more interesting, my little critter was enjoying its evening bouncing routine. As opposed to its morning, early-, mid- and late-afternoon jaunts, the evening ones are more energetic and spastic (I envision dancing capabilities akin to Elaine from Seinfeld). It seemed that one of the straps across my belly was to monitor the baby's heart beat.
So, of course, with every bounce, turn, and who knows what else, the baby's heart beat would elevate. On the head nurse's second visit to me, she explained I was still having contractions, and looking at the baby's heart monitor, the baby may be in distress. Incredulous, I asked why she thought so, to which she explained that although always in the normal range, the baby's heart rate was all over the map.
Although I was concerned, I was sure that everything was fine. But, Mr. Oh? He was paler than I've ever seen him and I wasn't sure if he was going to hurl or pass out. But to be safe, I stopped arguing and continued to be monitored.
Four hours later, the doctor finally came in, who engaged me in a full poke and prod session to which he reported that I, in fact, wasn't in labour. Relieved that finally was talking my langugage, I released an expressive, exasperated, "I KNOW!" and then went on to explain my pain.
After about 6 hours strapped to machines, I was finally released and told that I had torn the cartilage just below my rib cage, which can cause intense pain similar to a rib fracture. Oh, but there was even better news, there was really nothing they could do, the pain would likely get more intense as the baby grows and then I'd have a while until it fully heals postpartum. It's not a normal occurance, but I was told it does happen in some rare cases. Lovely!
As we left the hospital, I expressed both my annoyance for all the trouble and my sense of relief for knowing what is wrong with me. Mr. Oh, who started to get some of the blood circulating back into his face, turned to me and in his shakey voice, said, "I really thought it was all going to go down tonight."
I knew otherwise, but at least we got a preview as to what's to come on the real D-day!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Working girl angst
My whole life I have been working on my career. Every move I've made since I first joined the workforce, at the ripe age of 12, was in pursuit of my professional goals.
To be honest, I'm not sure where my intentions came from, but I've had them from as far back as I can remember. For a second grade assignment, I was asked to draw a picture of "what I wanted to be when I grew up." Heavily influenced by the evening soap operas of the '80s (yes, even at the age of 6), I drew a woman in a shoulder-padded suit with a string of pearls standing by a desk. I proudly presented the picture to my parents later that evening. While my mother appreciated my fashion sense, my father asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Boldly, I told him, "I'm going to be a lawyer." He scoffed, and perplexed by my admission since my immediate and extended family were all "blue collar" workers of one type or another, asked why. My response, "So I can wear a suit everyday!" Now that's a goal!
Since then, I've been working towards my ever-changing goals. But, within 6 or so weeks, I will be leaving my job and not to pursue other opportunities. This will be the first time I'm leaving the workforce for personal reasons! And, I can't tell you the anxieties I'm feeling!
At this point in the game, you'd think I'd be worried about labour and the excrutiating pain that is awaiting me before I get to welcome my new babe into this world. Or, perhaps, I should be worried about the upcoming 18 years and how horribly I'm going to screw up my child. Or, the other million and one things I should be worried about.
But, lo and behold, I'm working harder, and when my eyes can stay open, longer hours than I've ever done. Work and all I think I need to do before my departure are the things that wake me up in the middle of the night. Pathetic, I know. Last night, I woke up at 2:25 am in a fit because I had forgotten to send an email about something to someone. After trying to fall back asleep for 30 minutes, I got out of bed and sat down at the computer and started working. I worked until about 6, at which time I went to sleep for an hour or two, only to return to the computer at 8.
Mr. Oh can't understand me. In truth, neither can I. Perhaps, this is simply my practice for middle of the night feedings. Instead of tending to my computer, I'll be nurturing my little one.
To be honest, I'm not sure where my intentions came from, but I've had them from as far back as I can remember. For a second grade assignment, I was asked to draw a picture of "what I wanted to be when I grew up." Heavily influenced by the evening soap operas of the '80s (yes, even at the age of 6), I drew a woman in a shoulder-padded suit with a string of pearls standing by a desk. I proudly presented the picture to my parents later that evening. While my mother appreciated my fashion sense, my father asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Boldly, I told him, "I'm going to be a lawyer." He scoffed, and perplexed by my admission since my immediate and extended family were all "blue collar" workers of one type or another, asked why. My response, "So I can wear a suit everyday!" Now that's a goal!
Since then, I've been working towards my ever-changing goals. But, within 6 or so weeks, I will be leaving my job and not to pursue other opportunities. This will be the first time I'm leaving the workforce for personal reasons! And, I can't tell you the anxieties I'm feeling!
At this point in the game, you'd think I'd be worried about labour and the excrutiating pain that is awaiting me before I get to welcome my new babe into this world. Or, perhaps, I should be worried about the upcoming 18 years and how horribly I'm going to screw up my child. Or, the other million and one things I should be worried about.
But, lo and behold, I'm working harder, and when my eyes can stay open, longer hours than I've ever done. Work and all I think I need to do before my departure are the things that wake me up in the middle of the night. Pathetic, I know. Last night, I woke up at 2:25 am in a fit because I had forgotten to send an email about something to someone. After trying to fall back asleep for 30 minutes, I got out of bed and sat down at the computer and started working. I worked until about 6, at which time I went to sleep for an hour or two, only to return to the computer at 8.
Mr. Oh can't understand me. In truth, neither can I. Perhaps, this is simply my practice for middle of the night feedings. Instead of tending to my computer, I'll be nurturing my little one.
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